Worn on the edges by convulsive hands,
Encased in rough glass shattered into sands,
Recovered swiftly to forbidden lands,
Translated from words no one understands;
Was the tan book there to display its might,
Or inspire fools to chant in the night?
It was insipid to tame the unknown
With that wordless brick of inane old dreams
But some say they skim, mindless to what’s shown
While human thoughts sink in subconscious streams
So that those fools, lost into a nightmare,
Fall farther downward than any beast dare.
Still I read it once, to test present fears
Of community and of my country
Yet, as I thumbed it for strange words to try,
I saw only tan while I held my ears
To stop the ringing that cut through silence
Though not hearing it makes no difference.